


Melancholic Whispers

by Anonymous



Series: Egos and Histories [1]
Category: A Heist With Markiplier (Web Series), Markiplier TV (Web Series), Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: AU where the DA was taken to our universe — that's where the mirror led., Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, An attempt at making the DA's fate slightly less tragic, Gen, It's been nearly four years and I am STILL not over WKM., POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 07:19:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30001269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It's a terribly common thing to assume that the good District Attorney was trapped forevermore in the mirror, never to move, never to know freedom.But what if that thin veneer of glass led to somewhere else?OrThe District Attorney was banished to the mirror. The mirror had two sides.
Relationships: Damien | The Mayor & Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Darkiplier (Markiplier TV) & Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), It could be very very vaguely shippy if you squint — but it could just as easily be platonic.
Series: Egos and Histories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206938
Kudos: 9
Collections: Anonymous





	Melancholic Whispers

* * *

When you opened your eyes, everything around you was pitch black. And not in that soft, gentle way that black fabrics were — not in that lovely grey that bordered the edges of black walls, or the drip of ink against paper and metal. The black that surrounded you now was complete; sucked up any possible hint of light until you were half certain it was taking the pallor from your skin. 

You were back. _Again._

You blinked, rubbed hard at your eyes as something hard materialized behind your ribs, a heavy weight that pressed down against your lungs. The air rippled and wobbled in front of you, but you refused to peer through that screen. Refused to look into the glass. 

"... I don't know why you won't let this go," you called to the open air, indignant.

It had been so terribly long — how much, you wondered, had your voice changed? You'd adapted, you knew that much at least. Your old accent had faded with time, the dredges of an ancient dream. 

For a while it was silent. Enough so that you considered they were just feeling shitty that day. Not bad enough to pull you out, to save you, to do _anything_ at all, but just bad enough to look at you. To torment themselves with feelings you knew didn't matter, not to them, and now not even to you. You weren't sure what they were searching for, in these moments. Perhaps they were hoping for you to plead with them, like you had at the very start. To beg to be let back, to appeal to their broken hearts — to call out, wretched and abandoned, to a man you thought had been your closest friend. But you had adapted, as had they. And there was no longer any reason for you to beg, now that you had adjusted to a life that should have never been. 

(Maybe the reason they hadn't pulled you out had been because they _couldn't._ But that didn't change the fact that they never tried. That didn't change the fact that they'd thrown you there in the first place — maybe even expected for there to be nothing on the other side.)

You were glad that time behind the screen seemed to stop when they pulled you into this place. You were boiling some water either for tea or coffee — you hadn't decided yet — and you really didn't want it to bubble over. 

_"..."_

They still said nothing. You rubbed your hand over your face, heaved an exasperated sigh. 

"I don't even know if you can still hear me," you sighed. "But if you can — do yourself and myself a favor. Just leave me alone." 

You hadn't lied often, in your old life. It was a rare thing indeed to lie about anything at all — you and Damien had taken such pride in your honesty; had been so excited to represent your city together, even promised to keep one another in check. You'd always been honest with each other, with your friends, your families; always, _always._

You lied now, as you pretended not to know they could hear every word. Pretended not to know that they'd put in the extra effort to make sure you could speak this time. 

You figured that was fair. They did steal your body and kick you forcefully to another dimension, after all. Even if you'd long since adjusted, you had very little pity to spare for anyone at that rotten party from so long ago — save for the detective, and even to some extent that poor, broken colonel. Sure he'd been the one to fire the gun, but at least he had showed true remorse. 

(Also the butler. You had found it quite sweet in a sad way that Mark had brought his loyal butler with him — Benjamin? Whatever it was now — to his next attempt. You still remembered how much the butler had cried when the first death occurred. _H_ _e_ at least had none of his memories from the other side, and not even a speck of madness to show for it; a rare exception.)

_Speaking of..._

They were — _he_ was, for now it seemed Céline was absent — staring. With your eyes at that.

You continued. 

"I don't know what you hope to gain from this. Sadism? Have you taken more tips from him after all?"

He bodily tensed, glitched in place. You wondered how that broken neck was working for him. Your old broken neck. You massaged your new one — original one? Dimensional travel made little sense on a good day, much less one like this — and tried not to show your somber smile. The ache was melancholy now, a smoldering match long since snuffed out. 

"Let me go, if you're just going to stand there. You have no right to intrude on my business." 

.

.

.

_"You join him on his… escapades."_

The last word was spat with a shocking amount of bitterness. You blinked, surprised. You hadn't actually expected him to speak this time. You'd been expecting this, of course. Ever since you last caught a glimpse of him on that little heist, you'd known it was coming. 

Still. It didn't make it any more pleasant. 

"... sometimes, sure." You shrugged. He glitched. 

_"How? How can you bear to—"_

"Well he didn't steal my body, that's a start." 

He only barely faltered at that. The slightest drag of his drawl as he tried to retort.

_"He stole—"_

"A ton of things, sure. And now you're even. Innocent victims on both sides. Congratulations." 

For all the bite your words should have held, there was actually very little venom. You were still mildly upset, sure, and it wasn't like you were going to forgive them for tricking you — but after the initial culture shock, you'd adapted quite well to the unexpected world on the other side, what with their advanced technology and strange automobiles. (Cars. They were just cars now.) Still he didn't seem to understand that; and if he did he didn't show it. 

His face twitched in a way that was so achingly familiar that it hurt — the body had taken on his form, see, and it inherited the quirks of whomever was in control. Which meant that his jaw was clenched in the exact way that Damien's always was on late nights spent working too long. He was frustrated. With _you._ With himself, maybe. If he was feeling self-aware. 

_"..."_

He spent so long standing there that you inevitably sighed, stricken by old memories and even older fondness, rusted over and crumbling as it may be. So you threw him a bone. What could you say, you were a sucker. Maybe living a separate life was making you soft. 

"Mark needs someone to fill that role," you reminded, almost gently. "And you and I know full well how much this house likes irony. It's not like I made that choice knowing what we were getting into."

_"You—"_

"I _what?"_ You snorted. "Listen, I don't owe you. I'd be angrier at you if I held onto old grudges like that, if anything. Technically speaking all Mark did to _me_ was die. But I have a life here. On this side." 

You turned to the glass properly for the first time. Laid your palm against the cracked surface and shivered — it felt like touching a too-hot television screen, filled with static. The room on the other side was unchanged — you could even see the remnants of dried blood, barely visible through the black and white distortion. Your last mark in that world. 

"... and for what it's worth," you said softly, after a long moment. "I haven't forgiven you. But I'm not angry with you anymore, either. So if that's even a small part of this…" 

He looked at you, expression unreadable and tense. 

"You should stop coming here. It can't be good for your head." 

The void behind you was starting to wobble and twist, which meant either he was actually taking your advice or he was losing his focus on forcing the connection. You allowed yourself one fleeting moment of mourning — one fleeting second where you remembered how well you two used to work together. Instructions passed without a word; plans made in the blink of an eye. 

Times long past, now. 

You turned, prepared to vanish back into the transport, then paused.

Considered.

.

.

.

 _Fuck it,_ you mused. _For old time's sake._

You tipped your head back. Smiled. Waved a few fingers at him like you always had back then — when the most concerning thing in either of your lives was heavy paperwork and late nights. One time. Just once. A dusty old script between two broken ghosts. An echo of old days where you'd tuck a blanket over his shoulders, urge him to rest. 

_"Goodbye,_ Damien. Sleep well." 

Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe a trick of the light. But you swore you saw his hand twitch; an aborted reply. Your smile gained a rueful edge. 

When you blinked, you were back in your apartment, the tea kettle only now beginning to whistle. You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaled hard and tried to shake away the cold feeling that nipped at your fingertips. The light now was almost blinding compared to _that_ place, but you'd be fine. 

You'd always been quick on the uptake. 

* * *


End file.
